Observances - Day Two Late Evening
Unification Day was observed in all make and manner by all kinds of folk. Proponents of the Alliance and their hangers-on kept up appearances by throwing the loudest celebrations they could afford. Ex solders stuffed expanding guts and blubberous backsides into purple uniforms for hope of free drinks or a toss with a willing partner. There were some as used the occasion for another excuse to get drunk…like Tuesday, but with fireworks. On the other side, for them who fought as independents, the holiday’s observance was a might different. There was drinking, and plenty of it, but usually done in quiet. There was always one or two who still felt the fight and wouldn’t rest til they’d split their knuckles on a purple skull. Most folk who wore the brown just chose to hunker down and wait out the clock. But Dorian Adler had his own way of noting the holiday. “Y’all scarin’ me,” he said to the bulging, skin tight uniforms and double chins around the table. “Call me a glutton fah punishment, howevah. In fah ten.” The ten credit coin clinked and gleamed it’s way down the somewhat mountainous kitty. If memory and his mathematics still served, the pile hovered somewhere around the twelve hundred mark. Pity he couldn’t find a real table full of high rankers for a proper cleanup. But this was the Skyplex, a floating bazar and way station for mostly working folk…those, he witnessed, who frequently didn’t rise beyond a Lieutenant’s salary or post war prospects. “Callin?” he offered a pleasant grin to a scowling ex corporal, “or stallin’?” “Didn’t come all this way to let some limp wristed little pantywaist walk the table,” the man growled. “Here’s my ten, and I’m raisin’ five.” “Oooh, yah best look sharp, sergeant,” Adler warned the man at the corporal’s left. “Ah believe he’s aftah yah stripes.” “Why come,” the corporal demanded, “you ain’t wearin’ the purple today?” Lunar Veil’s medic tossed cards onto the discard pile. “Three please,” he asked the dealer. “Because, mah good man, Ah did not wear it durin’ tha war.” “Thought I smelt a gorram browncoat.” “Keep sniffin’. Ah didn’t wear either purple or brown.” “I conjure you’s wearin’ a pink frilly dress,” observed a former private whose threadbare uniform seemed to be running a race with the thinning hair on his head. He sat back, well pleased with his insult. “Sounds like wishful thinkin’,” Dorian replied as he added his ante. “Here’s anothah wet dream. Raise twenty.” A collective moan arose, accompanied by claims of “you just took three cards! Y’ain’t got shit!” and “he’s cheatin’. I know he’s cheatin’!” “I’ll bite,” the dealer said. “What did you wear in time of war?” “The white cross.” “You’se a shepherd?” “Naw. He’s a sawbones.” “Guilty,” Adler poured a fresh round of drinks. “Purple, brown, didn’t matter what they wore. Every mother’s son gets his leg sawed off just tha same.” “Thought I recognized the accent,” the corporal glared upon him. “Hera. You’re from Hera.” “Two fah two,” Dorian’s practiced smile held sanguine. The cards in his left hand lowered to the table. “Time tah show that hand.” “Yeah,” the pudgy corporal nudged the sergeant. “We showed Hera…din’t we?” His eyes made a circuit of the table, finding only the private’s grin rising in support. “Brought them a right proper unification,” he leered at Dorian. “That yah did,” Adler’s shoulders relaxed as his eyes held steady. “Unless yah ‘bout tah raise, Ah suggest yah call…or yah can keep talkin.’ His left hand carried the shotglass to his lips, then left it empty upon the table. “You playin’ poker, friend?” he asked, “or yah tellin’ stories ‘bout a battle you nevah fought?” “You gorram little faggot.” This chain of events was winding down to its’ inexorable conclusion. The Corporal was a right hander. He’d made the unfortunate choice of filling his dominant hand with cards. Dorian’s smile hardened as he watched the man struggle with his own coat tails and rolls of belly fat to make a grab for his pistol. As his fingers closed around the handgrip, the Corporal’s eyes lifted to take in the nickel plated steel barrel trained upon his forehead. Adler had drawn both pistols. The second now robbed the balding ex private of his resolve. “Ah believe this ante’s topped,” he said easily. “Now, private,” he cocked the hammer, “yah steppin’ up, or steppin’ off?” The former private lifted both hands in supplication. “Didn’t have nuthin’,” he muttered as his chair scooted back. “Tactical retreat,” Dorian passed judgment on the man’s exit. He lowered the right pistol, keeping it to hand as it settled upon his lap. “Now you, mah vociferous friend. Oh,” his eyebrows raised in faux surprise as the Corporal showed his cards. “Two pair. Admirable. Gentlemen? If yah please?” One by one, the others displayed their cards. All the while, Dorian and the Corporal locked eyes. “All junk…no winners,” he proclaimed. “Lady Luck might just be smilin’ on yah. Mistah dealer,” he asked, “mah hands are full. Wouldja keep me honest?” “Sure,” the dealer shrugged. One by one, he turned Dorian’s cards face up. “A straight,” he announced. “Man’s got a straight.” “Reminds me of a song lyric,” Adler smiled as he opened his medical bag. “A classic, from Earth-That-Was….’Ain’t that some shit?” he winked mischievously. The table held silent as the stack of cash disappeared from sight. “Tip fah tha dealer,” he nodded, “an’ Ah typically buy a round of drinks fah tha table. Sadly, the congenial nature of this game’s been squandered,” he said as twenty credit coins landed before each of the other players. The night’s work completed, Dorian Adler rose to his feet. “You sumbitch,” the Corporal spat. “What’s to stop me chasin’ your prissy ass down in the street?” “Mmmm…your three hundred pounds, Ah conjure,” Dorian quipped. “Gentlemen,” he offered a nod. “Adieu.” The artificial nighttime of the Skyplex offered a cool breeze as he stepped into the street. Now free of the saloon and reasonably certain of no pursuit, Adler holstered the pistol before signaling a waiting rickshaw. It’d be a nice night to ride back to the boat.